


A Question of Transience

by Semira



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Death Loves Fast Food, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Episode: s09e01 I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here, Gen, POV Death, Sam Winchester-centric, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Sacrifice, Self-Worth Issues, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semira/pseuds/Semira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is older than creation, fated to reap the harvest of souls when the world ends. He is older than tiny human minds can comprehend. He is not a fanboy of Sam Winchester.</p><p>He <em>isn't</em>.</p><p><b>In other words...</b> <em>A short and slightly-snarky character study of Death and Sam Winchester inspired by Death's uncharacteristic and fascinating appreciation for Sam. This also seems to be the <b>first and only work</b> on AO3 tagged "Death & Sam Winchester," which is a tragedy, really.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Question of Transience

Sam Winchester is not special.

It's not terribly unusual for a being of Death's considerable power to handle human souls. They are, in a very real way, the currency of the universe.

He's always had a sort of detached appreciation for them. Humans are flawed, filthy, and diseased, but he loves the _creative_ faculties they possess. Death is not in the business of creation. He has been called many things in many languages, some more poetic and appreciative than others, but he has always been a handler rather than a maker.

He appreciates God in much the same way. God is creative, too, a trait he passed on to the short-lived creatures on the little blue planet that fancies itself unique. 

Now, in addition to bestowing upon them the ability to create, God made them transient, reliant (a state only worsened by the Fall), which, of course, engendered the necessity for sustenance. 

Ever creative, humans decided that if they had to supply their bodies with nutrients, they would do so in a way that was pleasurable. 

Death has seen the tiny dishes and delicacies that look more like art than food, but he's found that it's the artery-clogging indulgences like nachos and pizza and deep-fried cheese that truly please him. 

He does not care for humans, but he appreciates their efforts. He has seen children look at ant colonies in much the same way he regards humans.

Souls, though... souls are beautiful. God really outdid himself on those.

Again, though, Death doesn't get soppily emotional about them. He is merely reverent at the knowledge of the power they hold, their purity and strength. They're so... _vital_. 

Death has never been alive like that (of course). 

There is a certain power in transience. Souls are immortal, but the lives they live within humans are not; their struggle to leave a mark in the annals of history, while futile and desperate, is sobering. 

In its own way, it is even beautiful. 

He imagines that might be why souls shine so brightly—that tangled mess of fear and rage and love and uninhibited passion. 

Not all souls, of course, are created equal. He handled the soul of a greedy king once, and it was compact and angry, like a dying star. Left a bad taste in his mouth, if he's entirely honest.

Not all lives are lived with the same radiance, either. There are a select few souls that will leave an indelible mark on the world, and as with most things that leave scars in the eternal fabric of time, there is usually a great deal of suffering involved. Deep marks, after all, must draw blood from the living.

Death does not often do the work of ferrying souls. He's handled a fair few in his time, but he doesn't _have_ to. There was a brave man in his early thirties, dead only three days, that Death handled personally. He had the soul only on loan—and a radiant soul it was—and took personal responsibility for returning it to its owner at the appointed time. He even stuck around to watch a bit of the aftermath. Resurrections are always interesting.

Some souls, he gathered out of curiosity.

Sam Winchester's was no exception.

Sam is one of those few souls who left a real mark on the world. He was helped along, of course, by a handful of people, but he alone made the decision to throw himself into the Cage. Death can respect that sort of self-sacrificing bravery in humans, even if it means his employees end up busier.

Considering the negligible span of a human life, humans have evolved with strong senses of self-preservation—namely, a crippling fear of death.

Sam does not fear Death. 

Dean—oh, _Dean Winchester_ , the reckless boy who shares Death's weakness for truly good food—has a respectable bravado and courage, but he fears death in the way hardened warriors fear it. He's grown to scoff at his fear, chasing after death so it won't have time to chase after him. It's cute.

In Sam, Death sees an abiding peace with the idea of his own mortality. He sees a man whose soul is older than any human soul currently residing on Earth, thanks to his millennia-long stint in the Cage. More than that, though, he sees a man accustomed to loss and determined not to drag others down with him.

The Winchesters truly are _fantastic_ at messing with the natural order of things, but Death harbors a grudging appreciation for the younger Winchester. 

Sated and loose-lipped after a good meal, he might even call it _respect._

Sam Winchester is an old soul imbued with nobility, scarred by more years than humans were ever meant to endure (and survive) and brightened by suffering like gold purified by intense heat; it really is an honor, in turn, to reap such an honorable soul.

When he finds the boy sitting across from him in a not-room in a not-cabin situated in a lovely not-forest, bargaining calmly for the safety of his loved ones and the permanence of his passing and so truly, deeply shocked at the idea that a being like Death would be interested in handling his soul personally—yes, at a time like that, he speaks the truth.

“Well played, my boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments/critiques would be greatly appreciated! This is my first time writing Death, and it was a lot of fun to try to slip into his head and capture his unique voice.


End file.
